


Four Friends and a Stone

by woodburn



Category: Centuries - Fall Out Boy (Music Video), Fall Out Boy, Pete Wentz - Fandom, patrick stump - Fandom
Genre: Ancient Rome, Gen, Gladiators, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-07 12:44:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3174082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodburn/pseuds/woodburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Background story expanding on the events of the Centuries music video. The four of them are longtime friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Pete had always known he would see the inside of the coliseum someday. Every master who had ever owned him had threatened him with that destiny. They had all growled it in his face, then laughed like the thought of him being hacked to death with a sword or mauled by a lion was amusing. 

Pete knew the fact that his body was strong from unloading goods at the docks hadn't helped him avoid the arena. The slave broker had taken one glance at him shirtless and recommended him to the master of the gladiators at the coliseum. 

Everyone he met seemed to sense he was a fighter. 

And now, as the massive structure loomed mockingly in front of him, he knew it too. He would fight and die or fight and live. Either way, there was no avoiding a fight. Not for him.

He had just hoped he would face the fight knowing that his friends were somewhere safe, somewhere far away from any fighting.

Instead, he had watched them be bought by the same master, purchased to be gladiators. 

He had fought as the sales had gone down, screaming obscenities and swearing that no sword or lion was ever going to come near his friends. His outburst had resulted in a beating that had left his right shoulder numb and his back deeply bruised from being kicked. And as they had held him down on that auction room floor this morning, the physical pain hadn't even been the worst. The worst was the pain of knowing that the three men he had the honor of calling his friends were headed towards a fate they didn't deserve. He knew it wasn't his fault their previous master had died and all his slaves had been sent to auction, but he couldn't help but feel that they wouldn't have taken his friends to be gladiators if the slave broker hadn't singled him out as arena material.

Patrick had been a tutor to the master's son, for the sake of all the gods. He was gentle and smart. He should have been snatched up by a wealthy household. Why had the coliseum master wanted him?

Images of his best friend bloody and dying appeared in Pete's head, along with the gut-wrenching thought of Andy and Joe condemned to a life of violence. They all used to make music together at the end of the day, after the evening meal when other slaves gathered with their families in the courtyard. Joe brought out the stringed instrument he'd made, and Andy pounded on scraps of metal he'd scavenged. Patrick sang. Pete thought of song lyrics throughout the day as he worked. Despite the fact that they weren't free, they had been happy. And now the little happiness they'd had was gone.

Maybe the time had come to risk it all and try to break free. Pete shifted his weight, leaning on his bound hands as he tried to look through the wooden slats of the cart they had shoved him into, to watch the mass of humanity that filled the street. He hadn't seen his friends since the auction house, and there was no way he would try an escape without the others. 

The cart jerked to a stop, causing his bare back to slam against the wooden slats and reminding him of his bruises from the beating. If he twisted his neck, he could see the coliseum looming above the street. So, like everyone had prophesied, here he was at the arena. He almost felt a spiritual connection to the place. The massive structure's promise of violence sang to the bloodlust that coursed through him when he thought of something happening to his friends. 

The driver of his cart walked around to the open back of the cart and faced Pete with an indifferent stare. 

"You're going to put these on," he said flatly, dropping some articles of clothing onto the bed of the cart. "I'll untie you for a minute, but don't even dream of running, not unless you want to face the arena with a few fingers broken." The man tugged at the rope knotted around Pete's wrists. The knots were strong, and the rope abraded his skin bloody before it fell away. 

The driver then pulled out a knife and cut the rope around his ankles. "Won't need that rope again," he explained, tossing it out of the cart. "Now hurry up."

The strips of heavy leather didn't fully cover his legs but he felt better protected then he'd been with only a scrap of cloth around his waist. 

The bruises on his back protested the tight leather jerkin he pulled on, but he couldn't complain about something that might stop a sword from cutting through his chest. 

And the leather forearm gauntlets studded with bits of metal were the best he'd ever seen. Maybe the gods did still care. 

Then he remembered Andy's expression of fear as he was sold to be a gladiator. No. No gods cared.

The driver waited until he'd fastened sturdy shin guards and sandals on his feet, then yanked his wrists together and brought up the bloodstained rope. 

"Guess you get to keep all your fingers," the man grunted as he pulled the knots tight again. "For now."

Pete didn't feel like answering.

"We're waiting here until I have orders on where to deliver you," the driver told him as he walked back to the front of the cart. "No running, or you know what will happen."

He seemed to enjoy making threats.

Pete turned his attention away from the driver and focused again on looking for his friends.

Instead, he saw someone focusing on him. It was an old man in a brown robe, wrinkles lining his face. He was walking toward Pete's cart – more like gliding, he moved so serenely – and he looked at Pete with an expression that made Pete think of faith. Conviction. Whatever ideas this old man was thinking, he surely believed in them.

Most likely a priest of some kind, who had come to pray for the souls of gladiators sent to their deaths, Pete mused. A man with good intentions, but good intentions couldn't cut through rope, or kill an adversary in the arena trying to harm his friends. The man of faith in the brown robe couldn't help him.

When the old man stopped in front of him, Pete stared at him, hoping he would just go away. 

But the man stood still, staring back at him with eyes that unnerved Pete. 

This man wasn't here to taunt him, or hurt him, or buy him, so whatever his purpose, it was something... different. 

The old man's cracked lips hardly moved, but Pete could hear his words. "A stone can kill, but it also has the power to preserve life." He opened his hand over Pete's bound ones, and Pete felt something small and smooth fall into his palm.

A rock could preserve life? Pete kept his face void of emotion, but he felt disappointment. The man couldn't help him. The only use for stones was for paving roads. Magic rocks didn't exist. And he couldn't kill an opponent with this tiny stone. 

The man who had faith in a stone turned away. Pete closed his hands over the stone. Magical or not, he wasn't throwing away what was probably the last gift anyone would give him in kindness.

The next man to approach him was not so kind. A large guard with a sword strapped to his side emerged from the tunnel that connected to the coliseum and exchanged a few words with the driver of Pete's cart. Then the large man gestured for Pete to get out of the cart. 

Pete tried to comply. He was angry, and sick with fear for his friends, but he didn't think defiance at this moment would accomplish anything.

But he hadn't had more than a bite of bread in two days, and his bruised body was stiff from sitting in the cart. The man seemed to think he wasn't moving fast enough and grabbed his bicep, yanking Pete out of the cart so fast he couldn't find his balance. His fist clenched the stone gift as his knees hit the stones that paved the road. The new pain combined with the anger and fear made defiance insist on appearing. Pete twisted his arm out of the man's grip. "Get off me."

The man's hand returned before he could stand, only now the hand was curled around his neck instead of his arm. "Say that again," the man challenged.

Pete's defiance was fading into exhaustion, but he couldn't let it go. "I said get the fuck off me."

For a second, the fingers on his throat dug into his skin and made his breath rattle, but then the man relaxed his hold, choosing instead to pull him to his feet and shove him toward the entrance of the tunnel, prodding him forward even when he stumbled. 

The tunnel was a welcome relief from the heat and dust of the road, but Pete only had time to take one breath of the cool air before his burly guard grabbed him by the shoulder. Pete sensed a fist was being aimed at him and tried to spin and duck, but his movement only caused the punch that had been meant for his jaw to connect solidly with his temple. Pain burst behind Pete's eyes and his vision started going gray, with sparks of darkness encroaching on the gray as he felt himself fall onto his side, unable to catch himself with his hands bound.

The gray turned to black as his head hit the hard ground.


	2. Chapter 2

Normally, at this time in the afternoon, he'd be tutoring the master's eight-year-old son in foreign languages. Patrick had picked up the knowledge of five languages during his life so far, and he'd been working on passing that knowledge to the master's son before the master had suddenly and inconveniently died. Now Patrick doubted he'd live long enough to learn another language, let alone have an opportunity to teach again.

He'd never in his most horrible nightmares imagined being sold to be a gladiator. 

He'd been born the bastard son of a wealthy traveling merchant who'd taken him along on his journeys after his mother had died when he was seven. His father must have felt guilty for impregnating a slave girl, because he'd taught Patrick to read and do calculations. The languages Patrick had picked up himself during the travels. Then five years ago, after he'd turned twenty-five, his father had been accused of using inaccurate scales, and the charges had been proven true. His father's possessions, including Patrick, had been seized. Before he'd been taken away, his father had told him he would have freed him before he died. It was a small comfort but it did nothing to help Patrick. The only thing his father had given him that helped him was his education. Patrick had demonstrated his skills and had been sold into another merchant's household, where he'd met Pete, Andy and Joe. The other men had worked at moving the merchant's goods from harbor docks to market, while Patrick had worked with accounting and later tutoring, but that hadn't stopped them from becoming friends. 

Those had been happy years, the best of his life, even better than the years his father had practically treated him like a free man. He'd gained three friends who cared about him.

Maybe Fate knew best in having him sold to be a gladiator, because he didn't think he could have lived with himself if he'd known the others had been sold to the arena while he'd been sold to another wealthy household. The survivor's guilt would have weighed forever on his soul. It was better this way. There was honor in dying among friends. 

Now if only all of them could be together again before they died. 

They'd been together at the auction house, where Pete had been sold first. But when Patrick had been bought by the same master, Pete had started fighting, and the guards had started beating him. 

Patrick had screamed at his friend to stop fighting, but it hadn't helped. The guards had hurried Patrick into a cart, and he'd seen Andy and Joe being transported in likewise manner. The three of them were now sitting together in a dimly lit room that served as the gladiators' living quarters. There were ten sleeping pallets laid out on the floor and two rough tables in the center of the room. No other men besides the three of them were presently in the room though; the guard had said everyone else was at fight training.

Patrick was glad. He didn't feel like introducing himself to strange people right then, or trying to figure out the social order of the gladiators. Not when he was so worried about why Pete hadn't shown up yet.

Andy and Joe had told him that after Patrick had been taken to his cart, Pete had kept fighting until the guards had pinned him to the floor. Joe had been sold last, and he said by that time the guards had started kicking Pete's back.

Oh gods, what if they'd killed him? 

Andy reached out and touched his shoulder, and Patrick realized he'd been pressing his hands to his ears, like he'd been trying to block out the memory of the sound of Pete yelling. "He'll be here," Andy told him steadily.

Bless Andy and his everlasting hope. But Pete should have been there by now.

"Why did he have to do that?" Patrick couldn't help wondering out loud, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.

It was Joe who answered. "He told me a few weeks ago that he wanted us all to be remembered. It's kind of hard to go down in history if you die a slave, so he'd been trying to think of escape plans for months, before the master died."

"He never tells me anything," Patrick muttered.

The corner of Joe's mouth lifted in a weary half-smile. "He tries to protect you."

"He can't protect me if he's dead."

"Which means he won't let himself die," Andy said quietly.

Patrick nodded, but he knew the truth. No one was safe.

They sat together in silence until they heard the scraping sound of the heavily barred door to the room being unlocked.

Patrick stood up, but Joe gripped his arm before he could take a step towards the door. "It might not be him," Joe warned. 

The door creaked open and... it wasn't Pete. Disappointment washed through Patrick like an ocean wave, crashing over him hard enough to take his breath away.

It was only two guards, carrying a bundle of – 

Oh gods. It _was_ Pete.

Joe gripped his arm even tighter as he recognized Pete, and Patrick knew he was telling him not to react until the guards were gone.

So Patrick watched, not moving or speaking, as the guards dropped Pete onto one of the pallets along the wall. And when the guards turned away indifferently, the wave of emotion hit Patrick again, only now it was drowning him in anger instead of disappointment. How could those men just throw Pete down and walk away? How could they not see how precious his life was? 

Patrick knew he had been sheltered from the cruelties of a slave's reality by growing up under his father's protection and the security of his tutoring job, but he'd never thought he'd have to watch someone he cared about be treated like he wasn't even human.

Although maybe he shouldn't be so shocked, considering the fact they were going to be thrown into the coliseum to fight for their lives.

The guards disappeared through the door, and Patrick heard them lock it. Then Joe finally let go of his arm.

In the few seconds it took for Patrick to cross the room, his mind shoved away the anger and focused instead on what he could do to help his friend. 

Pete was lying on his back with his head turned to one side. He was frighteningly still, and as he crouched next to him, Patrick couldn't help holding his hand above Pete's slightly open mouth just to make sure he was still breathing, even though he objectively knew the guards wouldn't have brought him if he was dead. Air warmed his hand, and Patrick thanked all the gods. 

"Why is he unconscious?" Andy wondered as he knelt next to Patrick. "Check the back of his head."

Patrick carefully slid his hand under Pete's head, feeling for blood or lumps, but he encountered neither. Then he gently turned Pete's head to the opposite side, and they saw the blood on his swollen temple.

Joe swore and muttered under his breath, but Patrick didn't hear him. He was back at the table, grabbing the bucket of drinking water he'd noticed earlier.

He set the water bucket down next to Pete and began tearing a strip of cloth from the hem of his tunic. He didn't consider himself extremely knowledgeable about medical practice, but he had heard of men dying from blows to the temple.

_But he's alive_ , Patrick reminded himself. _And he's going to stay alive_.

He folded the torn cloth into a thick pad and soaked it in the bucket, then laid it on Pete's temple. The water droplets ran down the side of his face like tear tracks, mixing with the blood from his split skin. Patrick wasn't concerned so much with washing the blood away as he was with applying the cool water to the swelling. Somewhere he had read that it would help. 

Patrick glanced at Andy and saw he was working on the rope still knotted around Pete's hands. It was bloody too, and the sight of his abused wrists made Patrick's anger burn back into existence. He and Andy and Joe had been cut loose when their guards had delivered them to the room, but Pete's guards had just dumped him and left.

Patrick tore another scrap of cloth from his shirt and soaked it, lifting it from the bucket as Andy lifted away the rope. Freed, Pete's hands fell to his sides, and as they did Patrick noticed a small stone slip from Pete's fingers.

He picked it up and held it out to Joe. "Ever seen this before?"

Joe shook his head. "No, but if he was hanging on to it, I'm not going to be the one who loses it."

Patrick looked at the stone again, remembered the twist of rope he had tucked into his belt, and had an idea of who might have given Pete the stone. But why the hooded old man had been passing out gifts didn’t seem important at the moment, not while Pete was still unconscious and bloody. Patrick tucked the stone under the top of Pete’s pallet, then handed the second wet cloth to Andy to use on Pete’s wrists. 

After a few cycles of rinsing out the cloth on Pete’s temple and replacing it, his friend’s face was finally clean of blood and when Patrick critically compared both sides of his head, he thought the swelling had gone down. He thought he’d seen Pete’s eyelashes flutter as he turned his head, but he remained unconscious. Patrick swirled his hand in the bucket, trying to wash away a smear of Pete’s blood that had stained his fingertip, then exchanged a glance with Andy and Joe. “Should we take a look at his back?” 

Joe was silent for a second, his face creased in a frown, then nodded. “From what I saw of them kicking him, his muscles have to hurt like hell. Maybe the water will help that too. But if it looks like they broke any of his ribs, we should leave that leather jerkin on him to protect the bones.”

Patrick breathed out slowly as he fumbled with the leather ties to Pete’s jerkin, glad they had a plan but afraid he would hurt his friend even worse. The garment was so tight on Pete’s chest that Patrick surmised the bruises on his back were swelling as well. Together he and Andy slid the jerkin off and with Joe’s help they rolled Pete onto his side, keeping the side of his face that had suffered the blow open to the air. 

Normally, Patrick didn’t curse as often as his friends, but the sight of Pete’s back was enough to bring an oath to his lips. Pete’s darker skin didn’t show bruises as badly as Patrick’s fair skin did, but the swollen patches of skin on the sides of his back and along his spine were a deep splotchy red. 

Joe ran a hand over Pete’s sides. “I don’t think he has any broken ribs.”

“Thank the gods for small favors,” Andy muttered. 

Patrick threw one of the cloths into the bucket, sending a small splash of water onto the dust of the floor. “But why would they beat him unconscious? Don’t they want us to perform in the arena?” 

“It’s not like his face was beaten up though,” Joe pointed out. “Except for the punch to the temple that knocked him out. I bet he just annoyed someone enough that they threw a punch at him and it happened to connect at the right spot. He’ll probably wake up soon.”

But he didn’t. 

The other gladiators entered the room a few hours later, dropping their armor next to their sleeping pallets and congregating at the tables for a meal of bread and some kind of gummy meat that a guard brought in. Joe and Andy introduced themselves and conversed with the other men. Patrick didn’t overhear the conversation, but it seemed friendly enough that he didn’t have to worry about the strangers causing trouble and trying to hurt Pete worse than he already was. Not that he’d let that happen even if they tried. 

There were five other gladiators, leaving two pallets in the room empty. Patrick grabbed the bedding off one and settled it over Pete. They’d left his jerkin off, and seeing the bruises on Pete’s bare back bothered Patrick. His friend shouldn’t look so vulnerable. 

As the other gladiators stretched out on their pallets to sleep, Patrick dragged another pallet beside Pete’s and settled in to keep an eye on his friend. Andy and Joe chose places along the wall behind and ahead of him, so they made a protective perimeter around Pete. 

He was always trying to protect them. Now it was their turn.


	3. Chapter 3

Pete knew he was dreaming, because he was free. They were all free, and living on land fertile for growing crops, with no danger of ever being beaten by guards or enslaved by merchants again. Patrick was free to sleep until the afternoon, Andy took care of their farm's animals, and Joe created the best musical instruments any of them had ever heard.

It was a dream Pete never wanted to wake up from. But he knew it wasn't real.

Outside the dream, he could hear Patrick talking to him. It sounded like something was wrong, and if something was wrong, Pete knew he should be there with him. He had to leave the dream behind.

Waking up hurt. The dream had been free of pain, and pushing it away felt like turning away from water after being burned.

This wasn't the first time he'd woken up in pain though. He'd been through the experience enough times to know how to keep quiet and swallow the groans. Noise brought attention, and attention meant there was the chance of waking up to see someone else mad at him.

But the only thing Pete saw when he silently opened his eyes was the back of Patrick's head. Wherever they were, it was dark, but Patrick's light hair was visible even at night.

His friend had his face pressed against his shoulder, a gesture Pete sometimes made to Patrick but not one that his friend usually reciprocated.

Patrick was murmuring something; Pete could feel his lips moving against the bare skin of his shoulder. Then he moved his head and startled Patrick, who sat up. "Pete, can you hear me?"

"I heard all the dirty things you were whispering into my shoulder," Pete said raspily, knowing the teasing would reassure Patrick that he was alright. 

"You told me last week I was too innocent," Patrick retorted, and Pete could hear a half-sob, half-laugh of relief in his voice. "Make up your mind."

"My mind hurts," Pete couldn't help but whine a little. 

"Do you remember what happened?" Patrick asked. "Gods, I was afraid you weren't going to wake up."

Pete remembered the dream. That was all he wanted to remember, but unfortunately he remembered more. Pete touched his temple and felt the abrasion. 

Patrick must have seen his movement in the dark, because he said, "Yeah, you got hit there."

Pete swallowed and tried to clear his groggy head. "What happened to you and Andy and Joe? And where are we?" 

"We're in the gladiators' common room. Andy and Joe are here too; we were brought here by the guards and then a little while later you showed up unconscious."

Pete tried to respond, tried to ask again if Patrick was sure everyone was alright, but he'd lost sight of the pale gleam of Patrick's face and now everything was dark and pain.

Gods, he wanted that dream back. 

Instead, he got Patrick back, and he was closer now. His friend leaned over him, giving orders in a low voice. "Pete, you need to stay awake long enough to drink some water. I've got some bread here too if you think you can keep it down."

Pete tried to shake his head. "No, you should eat it."

"I already had some, idiot. This is for you."

"Not hungry." Pete wished he was just being noble, but it really was the truth.

"That's just because of the pain. Pete, come on, you have to eat. Let's start with the water."

His head spun as Patrick helped prop him up on one elbow, but the ladle of water Patrick brought to his lips helped settle his nausea. He took a few deep breaths and winced at the pain in his back, but at least his head was feeling clearer.

He looked at Patrick again and found that his eyes must have adjusted to the darkness, because he could see his friend better now. 

Patrick was breaking apart a loaf of bread and drizzling water on the pieces. 

"You don't have to – " Pete started to say, but Patrick shushed him. 

"This bread tastes like wood, trust me. This was the only way I could choke it down." He held a damp hunk of bread out to Pete, who took it and focused on keeping his hand from shaking as he bit into the food.

He still wasn't hungry, but he knew he needed the nourishment. The bread might be tough and tasteless, but at least there was a whole loaf. He mentioned that to Patrick, who nodded. "Yeah, there was plenty of food provided earlier. I guess they want to keep us strong enough to put on a good show." Patrick spat the words in a low whisper with enough anger to make Pete's heart twist. "Which doesn't explain why they knocked you out."

"It was due to my irresistible personality," Pete told him, hoping to lighten the moment.

Instead, Patrick looked down. "One of the other gladiators said there's a fight planned for tomorrow afternoon. If you didn't wake up by morning, I figured they'd give up on you and take you away somewhere to die."

Pete’s stomach clenched as Patrick’s words brought the nausea back, and he curled over, trying to keep the food down. Patrick’s hands were instantly holding him up, and Pete leaned into him, resting his head on Patrick’s shoulder this time. 

“I’m so sorry,” Pete whispered into the rough fabric of his shirt. He was sorry he’d put up a fight, sorry that Patrick had worried. He was sorry that Patrick was going to see him die anyway, or Patrick would die, because they were locked in this hellhole where death was commonplace. He was sorry the dream wasn’t real. 

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Patrick said, just loud enough for Pete to hear him. “You woke up. That’s all I was hoping for.”

Pete felt his eye growing damp, and he surreptitiously rubbed it on Patrick’s shirt. “But – you know how this goes down. This is as far as we get in life.”

“Then we go down swinging,” Patrick told him simply. “Together. With Andy and Joe with us.”

Pete took a steadying breath, breathing in the comforting smell of Patrick. “I like this plan. I’m glad I’m awake for it.”

“Yeah, except that there’s still a lot of the night left, and I’d kind of like to be asleep for some of it.”

Pete leaned back, reluctantly lifting his head from Patrick’s shoulder. It was his fault Patrick was tired. “Get some rest. I don’t think I can sleep right now.” 

“But you’re going to try,” Patrick insisted, pulling him down beside him on the pallets. “Because if you stay awake, all you’ll do is think about tomorrow. That’s all I’ve been doing for hours, no matter how hard I try to stop. We just need to stop thinking.” 

“Fine,” Pete mumbled, glad to find Patrick’s shoulder again. “Tell me something stupid – in a different language.”

“You think everything I say in a different language is stupid.”

“Because you’re probably just saying ‘dick’ over and over.” 

Patrick blew out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, and Pete smiled. 

“Goodnight Pete.”


End file.
